Bonny and Blithe
by Anonymous Heavy on the Anon
Summary: The team gets called to Las Vegas where brutal murders are occurring. They need all hands on deck for this one, but Reid is having some issues with the Chief of Police and the lack of cooperation could cripple the investigation. Teen because it's CM.


**(A/N: A big thanks to KESwriter, who put a lug at the end of his/her story _Palliation_ for this one. I know my title's not as cool. Sorry. Anyway, I would like those of you who did not read the plug to know that while this story may have a similar overall plot line, it WAS NOT ripped off. The two of us simply had a similar idea and KESwriter wrote it first and did so amazingly. I would like to finish by saying go check out _Palliation_ if you haven't already. If you have, do it again! **

**KESwriter, this is dedicated to you. Thanks so much.**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Criminal Minds, Prentiss wouldn't be leaving. Is that proof enough for you?)**

_**Bonny and Blithe**_

Prologue

The girl screeched impossibly high, the noise grating against his ears. The sound rang in his scull, reverberating until he could take it no more. He did what he had come to do.

The man rushed the pretty little thing, forcing her to her knees, screams still ripping their way out of her mouth. The decibel level increased as a cold ring of metal pushed against her scalp. The ring turned out to be the edge of a metallic cylinder that held little balls of metal. Really fast, **painful** balls of metal._Shut UP!_ he thought, and pulled the trigger. The girl fell silent. An eerie smile graced the thin lips of the murderer as he unsheathed his knife. Now the **true **fun could begin.

_**BREAKLINE**_

"Come on! We gotta do this before school!"

The taller of two boys spoke to his smaller companion. They seemed to be getting into trouble, if the cans of spray paint in their hands were anything to go by. "Since when did you care if we were late or not? Or if we even went?" the shorter asked of his lofty counterpart.

"Since my parents told me that if I get into any more trouble in school they'll send me to the military academy."

"Wait, so in response to that, you're gonna go graffiti an ally way?"

"It's not at school is it?" They were nearing their target. Soon the small area would be covered in neon curse words and grotesque caricatures. Tall-Kid kept talking, "Besides, no one's gonna catch us. It's not like anyone cares abou —"

The pair froze, staring in horror at the gristly sight in front of them. "9-1-1?" Short-Kid squeaked. Tall-Kid just nodded, then managed to get one little word to pass his very pale lips. "Run."

_**BREAKLINE**_

It was 2:17 AM, Eastern Standard Time. This in and of itself wouldn't be a bad thing, but the phone was ringing. It is never a good thing when the phone rings at 2:17 AM, Eastern Standard Time. A groggy young man reached for his cell, which was on his bedside table. "Hello?" the young doctor croaked out, voice rusty.

"Good morning, sunshine!" the perky voice of Penelope Garcia, tech genius, Oracle of All Things Knowable and Unknowable greeted him. "You, my pet, have an urgent case in your home city of Las Vegas! So grab your go-bag and get here pronto! That is, in one hour. And don't be late, Hotch is **not **a morning person."

"Yet it is painfully obvious that **you** are." Dr. Spencer Reid groaned, swinging his feet off the bed and into the cold morning air. Garcia chuckled and a faint click signaled the end of their conversation. Sighing, Reid hit the lights, illuminating his rather plain bedroom. Having never really been able to spend much time in it, the young genius had never felt the need to decorate. He quickly dressed, snagged what he needed (his go-bag, messenger bag, and a cup of sugar-loaded coffee), and rushed out the door to Quantico.

These hours were going to kill him one day.

_**BREAKLINE**_

One hour later, the whole team had assembled in the conference room for the customary briefing and gory-picture fest. The photographs on everyone's (except Reid's) tablets showed a woman who looked to be in her early to mid twenties and may have once been beautiful, but her face was marred by deep slashes that had literally torn her face to ribbons and a bloody exit wound in her forehead.

"This," Garcia explained, pointedly averting her eyes from the gory scene on the screen, "is Cathy-Leeh Jones, a twenty-three year old model. She was walking home from a shoot, which we have been assured is a regular occurrence, but never made it. Her fiance filed a missing persons report around midnight – you know, Las Vegas time. She was found in an ally way this morning by two teens who had apparently planned to graffiti the walls of said ally, but ran to the police when they saw thi – oh God! I really can't look at this stuff." Garcia changed the photo to a picture of Cathy-Leeh in life, once again surprising everyone at how much her fatal ordeal had changed her looks.

Morgan asked the awkward question. "Any signs of sexual assault?"

"None, and for that I am thankful. No creep, no matter how creepy a creep, should feel the need to both rape and **that** anyone!" Garcia stated, waving her arms for emphasis.

"If she took the same route home everyday, she could have easily been observed or followed. This probably wasn't a crime of opportunity. She was singled out," Emily Prentiss put in.

Reid (now much more awake thanks to three more cups of coffee with heinous amounts of sugar) looked up from his paper file. "Nothing was taken from her purse. They were able to use her driver's license to ID her."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, Spence," JJ said frowning. She stared hard at the photo of the contents of Miss Jones' purse. "There is something missing, but I can't put my finger on what."

"I know what you mean," Prentiss told her friend, "I feel like it's right under our noses, and yet..."

"Well, you two ladies may ponder the mysteries of whatever is under your noses and Cathy-Leeh's purse, but I for one am more interested in what the Unsub did to her face. The cuts reek of fury, even it being personal, but the cuts were made postmortem; she was killed execution-style, which suggests the exact opposite of a personal connection. It doesn't make any sense," Rossi pointed out.

"Hey guys?" Morgan spoke over the noises of slurping coffee, "did you see the note that was pinned on her blouse? It just says, 'Monday's'."

"Well, that kind of implies a 'Tuesday's', doesn't it?" Rossi said grimly.

Hotch, who had been keeping quiet suddenly broke in with harsh, gravelly tones. "Then we can't lose a moment. Wheels up in thirty." Then the unit chief turned and abruptly left the room.

Reid turned to Garcia. "Yeah, definitely not a morning person."

**(A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please review, I would love your feedback to help with later on.)**


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